The Detective and His Pathologist
by London Belle
Summary: (Sequel to 'A Different Kind of Gala', you might want to read that one first.) She loves him, right? Right? The morning after, Sherlock is unsure where he stands. Can he figure himself out without hurting Molly in the process? [rating is for language]
1. Chapter 1

"So she said yes, did she? Told you," John Watson called as he sat in his Baker Street armchair.

From the kitchen, Sherlock called back, "It would appear so," before emerging with two tea cups and a plate of toast balanced on his forearms. He gently set them down on the coffee table before collapsing into his own chair. "I never thought she would, not after that scene I somehow managed to make-"

"Scene? What, you mean that scene _Mycroft_ made?" John interrupted, reaching for his cup. "If I remember correctly, it was your bastard of a brother who brought that up, not you. And I'd like to point out that Molly seemed fine with it, given that she didn't insist upon fleeing right then and there."

The detective sighed, running a hand through his curls. "That was only because she was trying to be polite, John," he said. "I almost had to carry her out of that ballroom, seeing as she was so afraid that leaving early would be rude."

"See, that's where you're wrong," countered the doctor. "Anyone with a proper set of eyes could see that she thought you were perfect, her whole world. And as much as I know you're going to hate me for saying this, the same goes for you, too, Mr. Sentiment."

Rather than lashing out with some defensive comment, Sherlock simply straightened up and quietly asked, "Really?" He still was not convinced that his actions the previous night had not hurt Molly.

"Really. Unless you did something stupid in the cab?" John tensed for a moment.

"Nothing you wouldn't approve of," came the quick reply.

Molly had fallen asleep mere minutes away from their destination, so Sherlock had tapped the driver's shoulder and changed the address to her flat. When they arrived, he refused to wake her up, instead choosing to gently scoop her up in his arms. He carried her all the way up to her room, where he fought with himself over putting her down. Finally, he reluctantly placed her on her bed, covering her with the blanket draped over the foot. He had kissed her one last time before departing, heading home to his own 221B Baker Street.

Now, it was mid-morning, and John had come for a visit, mainly because he had received a text from Sherlock earlier.

**Please come to Baker Street at once, if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.**

**SH**

The fact that the detective had said 'please' and the urgent tone of the message had John out of his flat and into a cab in minutes, only to find a rather relaxed Sherlock playing his violin. The soldier had stayed anyway, and the topic of discussion had now turned to the Holmes' Gala that had taken place the previous night.

"And you're sure about that?" John asked nervously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling his dressing gown tighter around him. "Yes, John, positive."

"If you're completely certain that you did nothing, absolutely _nothing_ that might have been considered the least bit offensive, then yes, really. I can't believe you're even having doubts about this, you idiot! Did you even see-" he broke off, waving his hand. "Never mind. Just trust me, she said yes because she loves you. I promise," he added at the detective's look of skepticism.

"But-" Sherlock was interrupted suddenly by the man sitting across from him.

"But _what_, Sherlock? Do you need me to prove it?" John crossed his arms, eyebrow raised.

As childish and as stupid as it sounded, Sherlock _did_ want him to prove it. He just couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that sat heavily in the back of his mind, guilt because of the scene he had made, guilt because he had left her alone in her flat, guilt because he hadn't told her sooner. He nodded silently.

Now it was John who rolled his eyes, sighing. "Fine," he said. "Text her." He gestured to the mobile that lay on the coffee table beside Sherlock's untouched cup of tea.

The detective reached for his mobile, eyes wide.

"She's awake, no harm done. Actually, she's at Bart's now. I stopped by to say hello a few hours ago," John explained.

Silence. Sherlock stared at the mobile as if it would bite him.

"Go on," encouraged the doctor.

"What do I say?" Sherlock asked frantically.

"No need to panic, just tell her good morning," John replied calmly. "If she doesn't answer you immediately, I'll be surprised."

Hesitantly, the detective typed. **Good morning, Molly. SH** He placed the mobile in his lap, watching it carefully. One minute passed, and the tiny screen lit up again.

**Good morning, Sherlock! I have three new corpses for you today, if you'd like to come and take a peek.**

**MH**

John couldn't say for sure, but he figured it took Sherlock approximately ninety seconds to process that text. When he finally did, however, it only took him thirty to leap out of his chair, rush into his room, slam the door, throw on a perfectly pressed suit, grab his coat and scarf, and sprint down the stairs.

The doctor had just placed his cup down on the table when a head poked around the doorframe. "Are you coming or not?" The invitation was brisk and blunt.

John smiled. "That depends. I think you can handle this one by yourself, but I'll come if you want me to."

"Of course, I want you to come, don't be stupid," came the response, and as John closed the door behind him, he prayed to God that somehow, Sherlock wouldn't screw this one up.

**ooooo**

_The morning after, the start to our new sequel._

_Please, let me know what you think!_

_~London Belle_


	2. Chapter 2

On the cab ride over, Sherlock was unnaturally fidgety. He didn't talk, but he did just about everything else. Crossed his legs, uncrossed his legs. Played with his mobile, put it back in his pocket. Untied his scarf, retied his scarf. By the time they reached St. Bart's, John was ready to strangle him with the damn thing.

"Sherlock-"

"My hair, John." The detective was now trying to get a glimpse of himself in the cab's rearview mirror.

"Excuse me?"

"My hair. How is it?" He asked, a slight note of panic at the edge of his tone. He desperately pulled at his curls, yanking them in all directions.

"Sherlock, stop it." John's voice was stern, in his typical 'no bullshit' fashion. "All we're doing is going to visit Molly in the morgue."

"Exactly," came the distracted response. "So, how is my hair?"

John sighed. "Your hair is fine. Can we get out now? The poor driver has already been waiting for fifteen minutes."

A reluctant grumble sounded before Sherlock agreed to get out of the waiting cab, leaving John to pay.

They walked into St. Bart's the opposite way they usually did - that is to say, like normal human beings. When they reached the morgue, instead of making his typical grand entrance, Sherlock pushed one door open gently and slipped inside, John close behind him.

Molly was working on a cadaver, an assorted array of various internal organs spread out on the table around her. She didn't notice the two men enter, but John realized this a moment too late.

Sherlock walked up right next to her, a liver in her hand. "Hello," he said quietly. She jumped, startled, letting out a gasp and sending the liver airborne. The detective quickly shot an arm out to catch it, gently setting it down in front of her before drifting to the sink. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," he called over his shoulder, turning the water on. He glanced anxiously at John, whose face had gone pale. The doctor seated himself on a stool next to Molly, grinning weakly at his friend as he did so.

"Oh, it's fine, really," Molly let out a nervous laugh. "I suppose I was a little too involved with Mrs. Cavalier, anyway." She set her scalpel down and removed her gloves. "Hello, John," she said brightly.

"Hi, Molls," replied the doctor, smiling at her.

Sherlock sat on the other side of Molly, examining her latest project as he said, "Did you say you had three corpses? Why so many, if I may ask?"

Molly shrugged. "Just a busy day, I guess. One heart attack, one stroke, and one alcohol poisoning," she said, pointing to the body in front of her with her last remark. "Nobody needs them for anything, so I figured maybe you'd want to run some new experiments!" She beamed at him.

"Brilliant!" The detective's entire face lit up, and John took note. "Actually, I've been wanting to see the effects of a blood and stomach acid mixture on the large intestine - what say you, Molly Hooper?"

She laughed, getting up to open the other two black bags on the tables behind them. "I say, choose your corpse, Sherlock Holmes!" She tossed him a lab coat and goggles. "I know you don't usually wear them, but now the hospital says they're mandatory," she apologized.

John watched as Sherlock rolled his eyes, but slipped the equipment on. "Don't they know how very careful I am?" He mused, turning to Molly as she handed him his own scalpel.

She shrugged. "Maybe they're scarred by your radioactive spills and fires. You do tend to have a lot of those," she said, pulling on a pair of fresh gloves.

Sherlock grinned, and John instantly decided he no longer needed to chaperone the detective. He pulled out his mobile, a perfect excuse forming in his mind. "Oh, that's Mary," he said as he stood. "She insists I stop at Tesco right this minute to pick up some eggs."

Molly giggled. "Well, better get going then, John. Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt over some eggs, now, would we?" She bent down to open a cabinet.

"No, I suppose we wouldn't," replied John, looking directly at Sherlock over her crouched form. He read a good amount of panic in the detective's eyes, and he mouthed, _Keep calm and carry on,_ accompanied by a tiny salute. His flatmate nodded, and John held up his mobile, shaking it gently to remind him to text if things went south. The doctor snatched up his coat and headed for the doors, calling "Bye, Molls. See you later, Sherlock," before exiting the morgue.

**ooooo**

As the fourth hour rolled around, Molly was beginning to wonder if this qualified as a date. She was pleasantly shocked by Sherlock's manners; the detective asked permission before touching anything, offered to clean up on numerous occasions, and even _ran_ full speed to the tiny cafeteria downstairs when Molly confessed that she hadn't eaten a thing since breakfast. (He had returned with a coffee made just the way he knew she liked it, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a biscuit.)

Sherlock was trying his very best to impress the pathologist, even if he didn't realize he was doing it. When sent on a mission to collect beakers from the lab down the hall, he returned not only with more beakers than she had asked for, but also with flasks and a cup of tea for her from the machine in the break room. He could nearly always predict what tool she would ask him to pass her, and usually found her the next two or three she would need as well. But in his mind, his greatest achievement that day came when Molly tripped over a test tube that had fallen off of the table, unnoticed. He had watched from the other side of the slab as she fell, her arms outstretched. He had watched as she cried out, seemingly in slow motion. And suddenly, he was around the table, reaching out to catch her, and standing there in the middle of the morgue with a very stunned Molly in his arms, bride style.

"I'd rather you not scare me like that, Miss Hooper," he murmured.

"Okay," was all Molly could say, though it came out a good octave higher than it should have.

Sherlock unwillingly placed her back on the morgue floor with a sigh. "Your shift ends in thirty minutes. Shall we?" He gestured to the sizable (but not overwhelming, thanks to his constant efforts) mess around them.

She blinked before replying. "Yes, I think we shall."

Thirty minutes came and went, and the last test tube was hanging in the drying rack as Sherlock helped Molly out of her lab coat. "Are you headed home?" He asked, sounding hopeful, though Molly couldn't imagine why.

She glanced at her watch. "Definitely," she said with a yawn.

He extended an arm, smiling. "I'll cover the cab."

She took it without thinking, only slightly puzzled. _What on Earth-_ but her train of thought was interrupted by a buzz coming from her purse. She dug out her mobile and swiped a finger across the tiny screen. "Just John," she said with a smile, answering Sherlock's concerned question before he even asked.

**Is he behaving? He is still with you, right?**

**JW**

Her reply was short and sweet, given her nosy escort.

**Lovely, and yes.**

**MH**

Sherlock attempted to feign indifference, but in truth, those three little words sent him over the moon. Well, just the first one, really. He felt a slight blush coming on, and he could only hope that Molly didn't notice.

She did.

**Perfect gentleman. I'll tell you later.**

**MH**

The least she could do was put in a kind word for him, she figured. He ought to receive the proper praise from John, and the doctor certainly wasn't taking any information from Sherlock himself.

_Perfect gentleman,_ thought the detective to himself. _I rather like the sound of that._

He made sure to smile up at the security camera above the doors before they left.

**ooooo**

_A little morgue fluff, I just couldn't resist._

_As always, thank you for your lovely reviews!_

_~London Belle_


	3. Chapter 3

"You. Sit. Now." Mary commanded, taking Molly's coat as the pathologist flopped down onto the couch in the sitting room of the cozy flat. "I want to hear absolutely _everything_, and don't you dare leave one single thing out!" She gushed excitedly as John sat himself down in the armchair opposite.

The doctor sighed, deep creases forming in his forehead. "I still can't believe he was completely civil. This is Sherlock we're talking about, after all."

"I assure you, John, he really was wonderful! Kind, chivalrous - he even saved my life!" Molly swooned dramatically as Mary's eyes widened.

"Molly Hooper, you tell us what happened right this instant!" She demanded, sitting down next to the pathologist.

Molly laughed. "Fine, fine!" And the pathologist began to tell her story of the afternoon, John giving her only half of his attention.

Sure, he was surprised that Sherlock hadn't done something wrong. Of course, he was shocked by his chivalry. However, he was mostly interested in Molly herself. Somehow, the pathologist seemed... _different_. He couldn't quite find words to describe why, but he knew it had to do with Sherlock. Molly was filled with energy, bursting with excitement, and more outgoing than the doctor had ever seen her, which only made him smile wider every time she looked at him. John knew she loved the detective and he hoped to God Sherlock did, too, but the mere thought filled him with dread. Now, after observing Molly, he saw more than ever the damage that one tiny, misplaced word could do. As the pathologist stood to demonstrate her fall in the morgue, he glanced at Mary, and found the same concern in her eyes.

_Bzzzt_.

He had to make sure Sherlock knew what was at stake. Making up his mind, John decided to pay the detective another visit tomorrow morning to set him straight. He was too terrified of what his flatmate might do to Molly - and, in turn, what she might do to him.

_Bzzzt_.

Only when Molly had physically dropped John's mobile into his open lap did the doctor notice the incoming text message.

**I need you. SH**

He rolled his eyes. Leave it to Sherlock to call him out on a case at eight o'clock in the evening.

**Alright, I'm on my way. What's the address? JW**

John stood up and grabbed his coat, slipping it on as he apologized, "Sorry, duty calls!" Molly and Mary simply smiled at him, waving him away as the pathologist resumed her monologue.

**Baker Street. SH**

John frowned. Baker Street? Had Lestrade come to him? If New Scotland Yard was there, that meant Anderson and maybe even Donovan. His heart rate doubled.

**Please, try not to kill anyone. JW**

He slid into a cab and gave the driver the address.

**This isn't a case, John. SH**

John froze. If this wasn't a case, then what was it?

**If you're out of milk, go get some yourself. You are perfectly capable of getting to the nearest Tesco. JW**

**Mrs. Hudson has already brought some up. Can't you get here any faster? SH**

The soldier stared out of the window. His cab was five minutes from Sherlock's flat, five minutes away from what John prayed was a bored detective and nothing more.

**Traffic. Do I need to call Mycroft? JW**

**I'm fine, the flat is fine, Mrs. Hudson is fine. Don't tip the driver, he's already a minute and a half late, even with traffic. SH**

The cab slowed to a stop, and John absently tossed the driver a few pounds before rushing through the entryway, up the seventeen stairs, and into 221B.

Sure enough, there was Sherlock, very much alive and unharmed, lounging on the couch in his dressing gown while plucking at his violin.

"You have no case, plenty of groceries, and the flat is still standing. Why am I here, exactly?" John sounded somewhere between amused and annoyed.

"Molly." The detective sighed, standing up and walking over to the window.

"Molly?"

"Don't make me repeat myself, John, it's tedious." Sherlock picked out a sour note. "Yes, Molly."

"What about her?" John sat down in his chair.

"She went to visit you." The detective's tone was flat.

"Yes. She had nothing but nice things to say about you," added the doctor quickly.

Silence.

"She talks about you like you're the only thing that matters to her," he said softly. "You get that, right? I mean, you understand how much you mean to her? And how much she means to you?"

There was a long pause. Then, suddenly, Sherlock whirled to face John. "That is not why I asked you here," he replied stiffly. "I requested your presence because I am in need of your assistance regarding a particular matter that has come to my attention as of late."

"You have Mycroft for these things, Sherlock. I'm sure he can help you better than I can," John raised an eyebrow.

"It has come to my attention that I have taken Miss Hooper for granted on multiple occasions," The detective began to pace, continuing as if he hadn't heard John's comment at all.

"More like every damn day," the doctor muttered under his breath. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw Sherlock wince.

"Therefore, I have constructed a means of apologizing to her, and I would appreciate any thoughts you cared to offer on the subject," he went on. "And I thought, if you weren't doing anything tomorrow, you might wish to help me."

John's jaw hit the floor. Here was Sherlock, calm as could be, wanting to apologize to Molly? And even better yet, asking for _help_ in doing so? _John's_ help?

"Do close your mouth, John, it's very unbecoming," Sherlock said in disgust.

The soldier straightened, returning his jaw to its original position. "Alright, you git, what do you have so far?"

**ooooo**

_Just a bit of suspense - I promise, next chapter will be out by the weekend!_

_Reviews are greatly appreciated - thank you to my lovely readers!_

_~London Belle_


	4. Chapter 4

Molly sighed, grabbing her lab coat before starting on her first body of the day. She had three autopsies, four lab tests, and a mountainous pile of paperwork to complete, which all combined to form a very unattractive to-do list.

She walked into her office and sat down, pulling a few papers in front of her in the hopes that she might be able to get a head start before the corpses arrived. The pathologist had just started on the fifth form when she heard the sound of the morgue doors closing outside, causing her to look up in surprise. Nothing.

She got up from behind her desk and poked her head out into the quiet space, looking around. "Sherlock?" she called. She was used to his arriving unannounced, though she hated it when he snuck up on her. No answer, and no sign of any consulting detective. Molly was about to turn around and chalk it up to her imagination when a coffee cup resting on one of the slabs caught her eye. A note lay next to it, written in a large, messy scrawl.

_Two creams, one sugar._

Molly smiled and took a careful sip. It had to be from him, she knew, but she was utterly confused as to why he would bother. No experiments, no body parts, nothing? She could not for the life of her come up with a reason why Sherlock would bring her coffee and not ask for anything in return. _Oh, well. _Maybe she should just enjoy it while it lasted.

**ooooo**

_Finally_, the pathologist thought as she pushed a stray piece of hair back from her forehead. Each autopsy had been relatively painless, which meant she had finished by lunchtime, ahead of schedule. Needing a break, Molly stood up, stretched, and took a short walk to make herself another coffee. Upon her return, she peeked through the tiny window in the morgue door, feeling ridiculous but hoping to see another cup waiting for her or even better, Sherlock himself.

Nothing.

Feeling more disappointed than she'd care to admit, she pushed open the heavy doors and gasped. There, on the slab in front of her, were the files for each autopsy she had done today.

Finding files was Molly's least favorite thing to do, hands down. She hated the process of entering her request into the computer, only to have to interrupt her day to walk all the way down to the lobby to pick up the file request in person. This required seeing Finn, the desk clerk whose shift lined up with hers. Though she supposed the young man meant well, Molly dreaded his awkward attempts at conversation, which more often than not turned into requests for a night out with her. She always politely declined, but Finn was annoyingly persistent.

On top of the small stack was a note.

_Mycroft sends his greetings and regretfully wishes to inform you that Finn will no longer be available to chat - his shift seems to have changed quite suddenly._

The smile on the pathologist's face lit up the entire morgue.

**ooooo**

Over the course of the day, Molly continued to receive tiny presents from Sherlock. He cleaned the lab up for her while she was out retrieving the results from her latest tests, left lunch for her in the morgue while she tried to straighten up her messy office, and then - well, _then_ the detective gave her a present she just couldn't get over: He took every last sheet of paperwork and completed it _in Molly's handwriting_ while she was stuck doing a series of rather mundane experiments in the lab.

Each gift was accompanied by a little note, one that made the gesture even more lovely as the day dragged endlessly on.

_Yes, I remembered to wash the kidney before putting it in the freezer._

_I know you are much more partial to egg salad, but all that pathetic little cafe had was turkey._

The final note was accompanied by a text from Mary.

_Dinner? John and Mary are waiting for you at Baker Street._

**Well? Oh Molls, he's really outdone himself this time! MW**

Molly stared at her mobile for a good five minutes. She considered asking Mary what was going on, but she figured she should expect things like this from the detective. After all, stranger things had happened, the least of which was a dinner invitation.

**I'll be there as soon as my shift ends - I've still got two hours to go. MH**

She had just pressed the 'send' button when a text arrived from Mycroft.

**Not to worry, Miss Hooper, you are free to leave as soon as you are ready. Rest assured everything has been taken care of. MH**

_What has gotten into everyone today? _Molly thought, locking up in a matter of minutes as she tried to process the day's events. She was pretty sure the dinner was simply another crime scene recreation or an experiment of some sort, but why, then, were Mary and Mycroft involved?

She grabbed her bag and packed absentmindedly, focusing instead on what might be waiting for her when she arrived at the flat. Scenario after scenario ran through her mind, and she finally decided to settle the matter with the only sane person left.

**What's going on? MH**

**Sorry, Molls. It's a surprise! JW**

Now the pathologist was especially confused. If even _John_ wouldn't tell her what was going on, then what was she supposed to think? Her mind reeling with all sorts of unfounded nonsense, Molly stepped into the elevator and then out into the lobby. She had just reached the curb and was raising her hand to hail a cab when a nondescript black sedan pulled up abruptly in front of her. The backseat window rolled down to reveal Anthea, glued to her BlackBerry as always. She opened the door silently, and Molly slid in.

"Baker Street?"

"Baker Street."

The two women sat in silence for the remainder of the drive.

**ooooo**

Mary rushed to fling open the door as Molly climbed the seventeen steps up to the flat, smiling and taking her friend's coat before she was even in the sitting room.

"Hi, Molly," John greeted her as he stood up from his armchair.

"Hush, John, she's only got a few hours to get ready!" Mary scolded. "Now, you sit yourself down right on that couch over there while I go get your present," she said, sprinting up the tiny stairs to John's former bedroom.

Left alone with only the army doctor to keep her company, Molly sighed. "Aren't you going to tell me _anything_?"

"Nope," replied John smugly. "He made us promise not to."

Molly made a face at him while Mary came running down the stairs, her arms full of fabric. Muttering to herself, she unceremoniously threw the entire collection of taffeta, silk, and tulle onto the sitting room floor. Molly watched as she began wildly pulling at the pile, separating large pieces of material from pairs of heels, satin sashes, and massive clusters of diamonds. It wasn't until her friend thrust a bundle of purple velvet into her lap that Molly realized that the pile wasn't just fabric, but _dresses_. Dress after dress, in every color imaginable, soon covered every inch of the cozy Baker Street sitting room, followed by heels and sashes and diamonds and every other expensive bauble Molly could imagine.

"Mary... What _is_ all this?" Molly said in awe.

"Well, that's the fun part!" responded Mary, glowing with excitement. "Sherlock went out today and bought you fifteen dresses - _fifteen dresses_, Molls - and gave them to me with the hope that I might be able to convince you to wear one to the dinner tonight. And, you know, he couldn't stop there, oh, no. He had to go and find you all this to match!" She gestured to the space where Sherlock's violin usually sat, now covered in jewelry and other accessories.

"He bought those for _me_?" Molly's eyes widened.

"Yes, for you! Now, we have to hurry, because we've only got three hours until he comes to pick you up, oh my God, just three short hours, and we need to try all these on and you need to pick shoes and we might need one of those lovely sashes over there and who _knows_ what necklace you'll want and-" She stopped, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes briefly.

"Molly Hooper, we've got work to do."

**ooooo**

_Reviews are greatly appreciated, as always._

_Thank you, my faithful readers!_

_~London Belle_


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock ran into Mycroft's sitting room, where his brother was relaxing quite contentedly in an overstuffed armchair, sipping a glass of brandy. "Black or navy blue?" asked the detective breathlessly. The elder Holmes simply raised an eyebrow in reply, examining the general disheveled state of his younger brother. Clad in a half-buttoned shirt, a tie carelessly thrown around his neck, and one dress shoe, Sherlock looked almost comically out of sorts.

"Mycroft, damn it, answer me!" He ran a hand through his already hopelessly tangled curls, beginning to pace furiously.

"I am certain she will appreciate either," was the calm response.

"Not. Helpful." The growl was accompanied by a steady death glare.

Mycroft sighed, ever the diplomat. "Don't panic, brother mine, it's rather counterproductive. As for my personal opinion, I prefer black, but I'd venture to guess that should you choose to arrive in an alarming shade of orange, Miss Hooper would be equally as delighted to see you."

Sherlock nodded distractedly. "And my-"

"As much as I would love to see you with product in your hair again, I believe it's best if you leave it alone," Mycroft interrupted.

"Pompous arse," Sherlock muttered under his breath as he flew down the hallway.

Ten minutes later, he emerged wearing a classic black tuxedo, his curls unruly as ever. Crossing the spacious sitting room to gaze out of the window, he fidgeted with his cuff links, snapping and unsnapping them repeatedly.

"You're nervous," Mycroft observed with a small sip of his liquor.

"Brilliant as always, dear brother," Sherlock's tone was dripping with sarcasm.

"I fail to see why," came the matter-of-fact response. "She will undoubtedly have said yes, but if it really consoles you, you might contact John and see how things are progressing over at Baker Street."

Sherlock scoffed. "How very _sentimental_ of you, Mycroft, to think that I might worry about whether or not she has actually accepted my invitation." This with a small smile as he watched Mycroft bristle at the term in the reflection of the windowpane. "No, I believe I have much larger problems to deal with at this very moment, and I would appreciate it if you would shove off before I have to treat you like Anderson. So very much alike - and so blatantly not worth my time," he added, stomping off in a huff to try and at least comb his ebony mop.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before calling after him, "If it isn't that, then what is it?"

Sherlock stopped short, already halfway down the hallway. He composed himself, taking a minute to gather his thoughts on the subject and how best to put them so as to end his brother's dreadful meddling.

"Mycroft, you know my social tendencies and you know my history with Molly, so use that damn brain or whatever the hell you've got up there in that thing you call a head and _figure it out._"

The detective made sure to slam the door loudly, but it wasn't until he was sitting on the guest bed and staring at the wall that he realized he had his mobile out and was tossing it around. Though the thought of Mycroft providing him with advice for his nerves made him want to replace one of the bodies in Molly's morgue with himself, Sherlock realized he really _did_ want to know what was going on at 221B. Slowly, he typed out a text to send to John, who he knew would tell him everything he needed to know, no questions asked.

**How is she? SH**

A response came almost immediately.

**Leave your hair alone, and she just might faint. JW**

Sherlock smiled, despite himself.

**Remind Mary she has only half an hour. SH**

**You know, all she's been doing the entire time she's been here is asking about you. When she'll get to see you, where you're going, everything you told us not to tell her. JW**

Before he even knew what he was doing, Sherlock's fingers were flying over the tiny screen.

**What if I ruin it, John? What will I do then? SH**

**Easy. You won't. JW**

**ooooo**

Molly coughed as another cloud of foul-smelling hairspray assaulted her brunette locks. "Oh, sorry, Molls," mumbled Mary, pulling at the tresses with determination. "Just have to get this piece in place and..." She gave one strand a particularly violent tug. "There!" She stepped back to admire her work, smiling at her friend's look of exasperation and confusion.

At the sound of footsteps, both women looked up to see John standing in the doorway, grinning.

"You look fantastic, Molls! Just wanted to remind you of the time - only half an hour left!"

"Yes, yes, she _knows_, John," Mary rolled her eyes as her husband retreated hastily back to the sitting room. "Men," she said in disgust. "They have absolutely _no_ patience whatsoever!" She smiled at Molly, whose typical rosy flush had since faded into an anxious pallor. "Okay, so we have exactly one half-hour to finish before he comes to pick you up, which should be just the right amount of time to get you some jewelry. Come along, then!" She pulled the pathologist up out of her chair and led her into the kitchen, where the acid-weathered table was covered in an assortment of extravagant accessories.

"Mary," Molly began quietly as her friend fussed with a particularly lavish necklace. "Is all of this really necessary? It's just dinner."

Mary tossed the chain back onto the table, selecting a pair of earrings to try as she replied, "I tried to tell him, but he wouldn't hear any of it. Insisted on all of this fuss, just for an hour or two sitting at a restaurant. Then again, it's Sherlock - who knows why he does anything, really?"

"Mary?" John yelled from his chair. "You might want to come look at this!"

Mary flung the earrings down, hastily apologizing to Molly as she rushed into the sitting room.

"What's the matter? Is it him again?" She asked, sounding slightly nervous.

John slid a hand over his face, offering the mobile to her. "Just read the damn texts, and give me one good reason not to kill him."

Frowning, she glanced down at the small screen, and quickly turned an alarming shade of grey. "He... He can't be serious," she said in disbelief.

"Oh, he's bloody serious, all right. Seriously _insane_!" John huffed.

"No, John. Someone's got to stop him - for Molly's sake, if nothing else. I don't even know if she can _handle_ that, and if anything happened to her, I'd never forgive myself," Mary began, panicking.

"Don't you think I already tried that? There's no talking him off this ledge."

Mary thought for a minute before answering, "Can you delay him?"

John stared at her incredulously.

"Even if it's only for a day," Mary added. "Just long enough so I can see how she feels about him."

"You're not going to tell her." John's tone was firm.

"Don't be ridiculous John, of course I won't tell her! I just... Look, you spend the day with him, I'll spend the day with her, and we'll keep each other posted. Worst case scenario, we'll make Mycroft or Greg handle it. Easy." She crossed her arms, looking at her husband expectantly.

He sighed. "Fine, I'll see what I can do. But no promises, you know how he gets," John called over his shoulder as she headed back to the kitchen.

"I know," she called back with a smile. She turned to Molly, who was watching her curiously. "It's better if you don't ask," she explained. "Now, let's see... Ah!" She held up yet another necklace and a pair of matching earrings. Moving them in front of Molly, she paused. "Wait... No," she muttered to herself, rummaging through the jewels once again.

Molly hid her face in her hands, muffling a groan. It was going to be a _long_ half-hour.

**ooooo**

_Oh, suspense, suspense..._

_Thank you for all of the lovely reviews, my dear readers!_

_~London Belle_


	6. Chapter 6

"John?" Mrs. Hudson called up the stairwell. "John, dear, Sherlock's here!" She smiled at the detective standing next to her in the dim foyer. "I'm sure he'll just be a minute," she explained.

Silently, Sherlock nodded. He ran a hand through his curls and sighed, prompting an observant Mrs. Hudson to say, "I was nervous, too, my first date. Took me nearly three hours to get ready, can you imagine that? But don't fuss, dear, you'll be fine. She likes you very much; I can tell!" She beamed at him, and he smiled weakly in response.

Suddenly, they heard the door to 221B burst open, and John came sprinting down to the landing. "Shit! No, wait, hi!" He grinned mischievously at his friend before running back inside, bellowing, "Mary! Molly! Come on, he's here!"

Both Watsons reappeared a moment later, and Mary smiled at the anxious detective. "Hello," she greeted him. "Are you ready to see her, then?"

"I believe I am, Miss Watson," Sherlock affirmed, straightening up a bit as she shouted up the stairs, "Molls?"

"Coming!" A shy reply sounded from around the bend. Molly came dashing down the steps, muttering, "Sorry, I'm coming," under her breath as she went. Upon reaching the landing, she stopped abruptly, finally noticing the detective standing below her. "Oh," she breathed, "Hello, Sherlock." Blushing a little, she smiled at him, and he gave her a blank stare for a moment before smiling back.

The one-shouldered dress Molly had chosen was a pale blue in color, paired with a sash at the waist in a light ivory. Ending a little above her knee, the chiffon skirt was done up in layers to look like swirls of rose petals, creating an A-line silhouette that perfectly flattered the pathologist's petite frame. Mary had helped her find a pair of cream, patent leather heels that were studded with pearls, as well as a set of pearl earrings and a matching bracelet. To finish, her hair fell loosely across her shoulders, set into large curls with the help of half a can of hairspray.

"Hello, Molly. Mrs. Hudson, if you'll excuse me," Sherlock said lightly as he moved to offer his arm to the pathologist. Her eyes widened at his uncharacteristic chivalry, but she shook herself back to reality to give Mary a quick hug, saying her goodbyes to John and Mrs. Hudson on their way out.

A black sedan was waiting for the pair, thankfully empty, save the driver in front.

"I do hope I am in no way inconveniencing you?" Sherlock asked as they pulled away from the curb.

"No, not at all," Molly said quickly. She paused before asking apprehensively, "Um, where are we going, again, exactly?"

He grinned slyly at her. "One of my preferred establishments is hosting a dinner party tonight. Nothing special, really, but I think you'll enjoy it."

"A dinner party? Don't people have to _invite_ you to those?" She waited expectantly until the answer dawned on her, a white pallor replacing her usual blush. "Oh, no. You're sneaking us in, aren't you?"

"I prefer to think of it as 'blending in'. Don't worry - as much as I despise my brother, Mycroft has voluntarily provided us with valuable assistance. Unfortunately, the entire procedure will be rather pedestrian," he reassured her, plucking an ID belonging to one Mycroft Holmes from his pocket.

"Only you would consider slipping into a high-society event 'pedestrian'," she replied, giggling. On any other occasion she would be more concerned, but if the British Government himself was offering, then she saw no reason to protest.

"Well, it would have been much more fun if he had let _me_ handle it," replied a defiant Sherlock, crossing his arms in a false pout.

"I'm sure you would have come up with something brilliant," Molly smiled as the detective jumped to open the car door for her. She thought she might have seen a hint of a flush across those cheekbones, but she wasn't entirely sure.

He extended his arm to her, but was met with a curious look in response. "What?" He asked, sounding slightly amused.

"Mummy isn't here," Molly replied with a small smile, linking her arm with his. "And yet here you are, opening my door anyway." She watched him raise an eyebrow as they entered the massive venue alongside dozens of other couples, all dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns.

"Well, Miss Hooper," he answered, flashing his tiny white card at the valet, "One might say that I am trying to observe the social mannerisms expected when one is attending a formal event. Then again," he continued, encircling Molly's waist as they followed the crowd into the ballroom, "I myself might say that I am simply trying to make a 'good impression', I believe is the term." He deftly slipped two champagne flutes from a passing tray, handing one to her.

She took a sip before answering. "If the first, then thank you, and if the second - well, I should hope you and that massive intellect of yours realize that there is no need for any 'impression' at all." As they took their seats at their designated table, both mobiles vibrated simultaneously. Each giving the other a skeptical look, Molly unearthed hers from her purse to find a text from Mary, while Sherlock's message came from John.

**How is he? Are you okay? MW**

**Behave. And please, remember what I said. JW**

Two pairs of eyes were rolled as two replies were sent.

**You worry too much! Sherlock is fine - lovely, actually - and I'm fine, too. Promise. MH**

**I'll have you know, John Hamish Watson, that I have no intentions of doing anything other than just that. And obviously, I will remember what you said, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. SH**

Two mobiles were stowed away again as two apologies began.

"I'm sorry, it was Mary-"

"My apologies, Molly, John-"

And then two minds clicked as two eyebrows were raised.

"What _is_ it with those two lately? Always checking up on us - you'd think we were teenagers!" Molly laughed.

"Yes, well, Watsons will be Watsons, I suppose," Sherlock mused, smirking in his trademark, lopsided fashion.

Molly didn't even notice the dinner plate set in front of her - had that smile _always_ been this heartbreaking?

**ooooo**

Dinner came and went, and soon it was time for the guests to move onto the ballroom floor. "Care to dance, Miss Hooper?" Asked the detective, offering his hand.

"Only if you swear you won't drop me," the pathologist replied as they began a waltz, swirling across the floor in time with the orchestra.

Without warning, Sherlock dipped her agilely, pulling her upright again before murmuring, "On my life," with a grin.

She laughed, not noticing the heads that had already turned at their display. "When did you learn to dance, anyway? I mean, it seems like something you would have already deleted from that mind palace of yours."

"Mummy forced us into lessons when we were little," he replied. "And it does come in handy on the occasional case, so I like to keep it."

"You? In dancing lessons?" Molly stifled a giggle.

"Well, if you must know," the detective said as he twirled her around. "I was a much better dancer than Mycroft. His technique was absolutely atrocious, and he always stepped on my feet." He made a face at the memory.

"Wait... They made you two dance _together_?" Molly covered her mouth with one hand in an attempt to keep from laughing.

"Naturally. We were a flawed pair, the two of us - Mycroft's extra height and weight made him the lead almost every time. Terrible experience, that."

"Oh, poor you," she said with a smile. "At least you didn't have to do any serious partnering, right?"

"Actually..." A scowl appeared across his features. "I swore to myself on my tenth birthday that I would never, _ever_ tango with my brother again. After all, our past salsa endeavors had been humiliating enough."

Molly reached up to push back a stray curl from the ebony mop. "If it makes you feel any better, I think those lessons paid off."

Sherlock beamed, sweeping her up off her feet into a graceful lift and eliciting a collective applause from the crowd of previously unnoticed guests that had gathered around to watch the couple. As he gently set the pathologist back on her feet, he stiffened. _He should have known better, why did he always let his ego get in the damn way? _He stole a sideways glance at Molly, who smiled at him and said, "Bow to the fans, Sherlock." She curtsied and he did as he was told, immensely relieved that she didn't seem embarrassed in the slightest.

He really must remember to thank Mummy for those horrid lessons one of these days.

**ooooo**

_Thank you ever so much, my dearest readers, for waiting so very patiently for the (eventual) release of this chapter! My schedule has been rather hectic, and I am immensely grateful for your loyalty and support._

_Anyways, I rather enjoyed the sound of tiny Sherlock and Mycroft being stuck dancing together, and hope it is an agreeable little head canon for you all. _

_If you want to see a picture of Molly's dress (I changed the color and removed the bow at the shoulder), here's the link. Enjoy!_

_ . /i/pix/2012/01/13/article-2085891-0F6FF46500000578-835_ _

_~London Belle_


	7. Chapter 7

In Molly's opinion, the rest of the night passed much too quickly. When midnight came and it was finally time to depart, she was truly sorry to have to slip back into the same black sedan with its same government driver and go home to her same old boring flat. _Oh, well._ Tomorrow, she was taking off from work to spend a day with Mary, the realization of which lifted her spirits just a little as the car pulled up to the curb in front of her flat.

Yet again, Sherlock was there to open the car door for her before she could even undo her seatbelt, and he even walked her all the way up to her front door. She had just turned her key in the lock and was about to go inside when she remembered that she had forgotten one last thing, calling after the detective before he could duck back inside the vehicle. He whirled around at the sound of his name, looking slightly panicked. "What is it, Molly?"

"Um, I just wanted to say thank you," she said shyly, the soft light from her living room spilling out onto the tiny walkway. "For tonight. I... I had a lovely time." She hesitated, then suddenly dashed across the concrete and before he knew what was happening, caught the lapels of his ridiculous coat and pulled him down into a kiss.

Stunned, all the detective could do was stare as Molly said, "Now, go on home to John and Mary and Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure they have all sorts of questions for you, and you had better answer every last one nicely, okay?" She smiled up at him and he nodded, dumbfounded.

The pathologist turned and walked back towards her warm flat, stopping just inside the doorway to wave to the nondescript black sedan as it started off towards Baker Street.

She smiled as one of the tinted windows rolled down to reveal one equally ecstatic consulting detective waving back with vigor.

**ooooo**

The text chime woke Molly up at ten the next morning, causing a groan to emerge from underneath the tousled pile of blankets laying on her bed. An arm shot out to grab the offending mobile off of the bedside table, and Molly sighed as she blearily examined the tiny screen.

**Molly Hooper, you get out of bed this instant! MW**

She grumbled, sleepily typing a reply.

**Whatever happened to sleeping in on my day off? MH**

She closed her eyes, only to hear another _ding_ a moment later.

**There is no sleeping in today, Molls! You have to tell me all about your soirée! MW**

**Soirées can wait another hour. MH**

**Don't make me send John over there. MW**

Molly growled, sitting up with a rather fantastic mess of disheveled hair piled atop her head.

**You wouldn't dare. MH**

**Better yet, I'll send the detective himself. MW**

She rolled her eyes.

**Can you wait another fifteen minutes? MH**

**I'll try... MW**

**ooooo**

The two women sat across from one another at the Watsons' kitchen table, a pot of tea between them. "Start from the beginning," Mary said excitedly, pouring both herself and Molly a cup of PG Tips. "And no editing!" She smiled warmly as the pathologist sighed, then launched into a detailed account of the previous night. By the time she had finished, Mary was full-on beaming at her.

"Oh Molls, I'm so glad it all went well!"

"Me, too." Molly paused, sipping her tea before adding slowly, "Mary, can I ask you something?"

"Anything, Molls, go ahead," Mary smiled gently.

Molly took a deep breath. "Okay, well, I was thinking... I wanted to get something for Sherlock, you know, because he keeps planning these dinners and doing all of these nice things for me and, well, the thing is, I don't know what to get him." She flushed, fussing with the ends of her ponytail nervously.

"I think that's a lovely idea!" Mary said, carrying the cups and the teapot to the sink. "How about we go to the mall, and you can look around there?"

Molly smiled gratefully. "That sounds perfect, Mary, thanks!" She grabbed her purse, leading the way out of the cozy flat.

While Mary stayed behind to lock the door on their way out, she felt her mobile buzz. She unearthed it to find a text from John.

**Please tell me everything's going according to plan. JW**

She grinned, typing back a quick reply.

**Even better than I had hoped - is he alright? MW**

**Thank God - and that depends. He's been playing nothing but waltzes for two hours now without pause, and he's more hyper than he's ever been on any case before. You tell me. JW**

**Can you keep him sane until tonight? MW**

**Just have Molls send him a text. He'll be fine. JW**

Mary sighed. She had to admit, she'd be lost without her army doctor.

**ooooo**

_"Another one?" _John groaned, leaning back in his Baker Street armchair as Sherlock started up the twelfth waltz on his violin.

"This one's Tchaikovsky. I haven't played Tchaikovsky yet," the detective replied.

"No, but you've played Chopin, Beethoven, Mozart, Strauss..." John counted the offending composers off on the tips of his fingers.

"Fine," Sherlock sighed, setting the violin down in its corner before stepping over the coffee table and plopping down onto the sofa unceremoniously. Assuming his classic thinking pose, he was quiet for only a moment before turning to John.

"Can we go to Bart's? I want to see Molly."

"Molly is off today," said the doctor. "But-"

"Why is she off? She doesn't usually take days off other than weekends," interrupted the detective.

John sighed. "She's spending the day with Mary."

"Oh." Five seconds of silence passed by. "So, tonight-"

"You're sure you want to do this?" John asked, even though he knew the answer.

"I've never been so sure of anything in my entire life, John," the detective grinned, leaping up from the sofa to pace furiously across the sitting room.

"Then-" John was cut off by the sound of a text chime.

"It's mine, I've got it," cried Sherlock, hurdling over the coffee table and lunging for his mobile, which was resting on the mantle.

**Hi, Sherlock! I forgot to tell you - if you get bored and need something to do, there's a fresh cadaver waiting for you in the morgue. (It's open - no lock picking required, and I made sure to clear the schedule so nobody will bother you.) MH**

"Brilliant!" Shouted the detective, startling the poor doctor almost out of his armchair. "Oh, John, isn't she absolutely _brilliant_? We'll get everything in order for tonight, and then it's off to Bart's!" He sprinted into the kitchen, punching a number into his mobile as he ran. Sticking his head out around the corner a moment later, he asked breathlessly, "Coming? Please, John, do try to keep up."

As the beginnings of a "Brother dearest" could be hear from the tiny kitchen, the army doctor rolled his eyes. A hyper Sherlock, Mycroft, and a cadaver all in one day? How could he _possibly_ survive until tonight?

**ooooo**

_Next chapter, I promise, the mystery of "tonight" will be revealed!_

_As always, thank you so much for your continued support and reviews. It's lovely to hear so much positive feedback!_

_~London Belle_


	8. Chapter 8

"Mary, I don't really think I need-"

"Don't be ridiculous! It's adorable and totally you!"

Molly twirled around again, examining herself in the long mirror. "But I don't have any excuse to wear it."

Mary grinned. "Who says you need a reason to wear a little dress like that? Come on, Molls, it looks amazing on you!"

They had passed by a sleeveless ivory dress in the window of one of Molly's favorite stores, and Mary had insisted she try it on immediately. Featuring a fitted top and a flared, knee-length skirt, the dress was practical but also pretty. Though appearing plain at first, a small stitching pattern covered the entire silhouette, which Mary called "Halfway between a houndstooth and a polka dot, how cute!". Molly had to admit, as much as she didn't want to spend unnecessary funds, the dress _did_ look perfect on her petite frame.

"You're not going to let me leave without it, are you?" Molly sighed, pushing back the curtain and slipping into the fitting room.

"Nope," replied Mary, grabbing her purse as she stood. "I'll ring it up for you while you change back."

The pathologist stuck her head out at Mary's offer. "Oh, no, Mary, please! I'll-"

"_Go_." Mary said sternly, trying not to smile but failing miserably.

It was now four in the afternoon, and Mary hadn't heard from either John or Sherlock in hours. Beginning to worry, she pulled out her trusty mobile and sent her husband a text.

**Okay? We're just grabbing Molly a dress and then we're headed home. MW**

The pair were out of the store and halfway across the mall before they heard back.

**He's driving me up the bloody WALL - give me something, anything to tell him, PLEASE! JW**

Mary rolled her eyes, and Molly giggled. "What is it?" She asked curiously.

"According to John, our consulting detective is being a right royal pain in the arse," Mary answered, beginning to type a reply.

"No, wait," Molly interrupted her. "I'll handle it." She pulled out her own mobile, Mary watching with interest.

**William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you had better behave yourself. John is trying to be nice, and you will not ruin his attempts by blowing up half the flat, understood? Now, unpin the Cleudo board from the wall this instant and be civil. MH**

Ten minutes later, the pathologist's mobile went off.

**Thanks, Molls. You're a lifesaver. JW**

**I try. MH**

**ooooo**

"The victim is the murderer. It was a suicide," declared Sherlock proudly.

"Sherlock, for the tenth time, _that's not how the game works,_" John pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to keep from strangling the detective.

"Then the game is wrong," Sherlock frowned. "When you have eliminated the impossible-"

"Alright, alright," John sighed. "You win, again." He glanced at his watch. "Hey, it's almost dinnertime. Are you going to eat something?"

Sherlock paused thoughtfully. "Yes, I think I will, John. Angelo's?" He plucked his mobile up off the top of the skull, where it had rested for the past two hours or so. Marching into the kitchen to place the order, he left John to clean up the remnants of the infuriating board game.

_If I never see another Cleudo board again, _thought the doctor, _it'll be too soon._

He was just placing the box on top of the mantle when he heard his mobile chime.

**She'll be at her flat by ten. When is he coming? MW**

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. _Only a few more hours left._

**Midnight, overly dramatic as always. JW**

**Okay - she'll be ready. MW**

"They're on their way, John," announced the detective loudly as he threw himself into his armchair. Upon noticing John's mobile in his hand, he suddenly looked anxious. "Is everything-"

"Fine. She'll be at her flat by ten, plenty of time."

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief before beginning to send an array of rapid fire texts to seemingly every number in his address book with a ferocious intensity.

"What are you doing now?" John asked, settling himself across from his friend.

"Arranging things," replied the detective distractedly. "I'll need to run a few errands after dinner."

The army doctor simply shook his head, gazing past the consulting idiot and out of the sitting room window.

Had it been raining all evening?

**ooooo**

"You're sure you're okay, Molls?" Mary asked, shrugging her coat on as she picked up her purse.

"Yes, Mary, thanks so much," Molly reassured her, giving her friend a hug before she left. "Don't you worry about me, I'll just curl up with my Downton Abbey, promise."

"Alright, I'll leave you to it, then." Mary grinned, and Molly reminded her to say hello to John for her, closing the door with a sigh of relief. It had been a long day, and she was very much looking forward to a quiet evening on the couch.

She looked over at the black box tied with a purple bow lying on her kitchen table with a small smile. The pathologist fully expected to have to entertain her detective tomorrow at Bart's, and she couldn't wait to give him his gift, which she herself had made from the supplies in the lab. As she opened a window to let in some of the cool air from the rain that had begun outside, she couldn't help but marvel at the incredible luck she'd had in constructing the entire project unnoticed, though she had broken at least five rules in the process. _I suppose I'm always breaking rules for Sherlock Holmes,_ she laughed to herself, turning on the television and settling down with a hot cup of tea.

Two hours later, Molly was ready to fall asleep, despite the steady downpour that was now drowning poor London outside. She stood up, yawning, and slowly shuffled off to her room to get ready for bed, snatching the shopping bag containing her new dress from off the corner of one of her kitchen chairs as she went. She pulled it out to hang it up in her closet, but couldn't resist trying it on just one more time. The pathologist had just slipped it over her head when she heard her mobile chime with an incoming text. _At midnight? Must be Sherlock, _she figured, rushing to answer it in case it was something important.

She was rather surprised (and even a little disappointed) to find that the text had not come from Sherlock at all, but from Mary.

**Still awake, Molls? MW**

Molly frowned at the screen but typed a response anyway.

**Yes... Why? MH**

The pathologist puzzled over the strange text but was soon jarred from her thoughts by a tiny sound drifting into her sitting room over the noise of the storm. She listened for a moment as the sound grew louder, then changed in pitch. It changed again, and again, and suddenly Molly realized she was listening to _music_. A slow, beautiful waltz began to fill her sitting room, interrupted only by another text message.

**I think you had better go see who that is. MW**

Molly gave a tiny gasp - _it can't possibly be him, he'd never bother in this rain_ - but she rushed to the open window anyway, her entire face lighting up at the sight of a figure in a long coat standing beneath her, violin tucked under his chin.

"Sherlock?" She called. The detective looked up, startled, but he grinned when he saw it was her.

"Hello, Molly," he called back. From her height, Molly could see that the detective was thoroughly drenched, his hair a dripping mess.

"Where-" she broke off, suddenly having an epiphany. "Did you _walk_ here, in this rain?"

"Yes," he replied nonchalantly. Upon noticing her expression, he added, "I have a coat."

"Why? Why would you walk all the way to my flat from Baker Street in a downpour?" Molly sounded confused, but there was also something Sherlock couldn't recognize. He supposed he might figure it out later in his mind palace, but right now, there were more important things to consider - such as what he was going to say.

As much as Sherlock thought things through, he always missed _something_.

"I came to see you," he said, instantly regretting the words the moment they were said. "Obviously," he continued, and Molly thought he looked a great deal... Nervous? Here was a man who had stared down the barrels of guns and faced the most terrifying people in all of London, let alone the world - and he was nervous over _her_? She couldn't help but smile.

"And, I, um, I wanted to tell you that I... I enjoy your company, Molly."

Why was this so damn _hard_? Mary had told him it didn't really matter what he said until the end; that she would care about those words more than any of the others. But he'd done his homework on the subject, and he really didn't think this was the way you were supposed to start.

"My company?" Molly stifled a giggle.

As the detective scrambled for words, he noticed the pathologist was wearing a dress. _Why? Hair let loose, no jewelry-_ he stopped himself. He was _not_ deducing her, he was asking her a question, he reminded himself. And he'd better hurry up before she closed her window and he missed his chance entirely.

"Yes, and I-" he paused, dropping his head and muttering, "No, that's not right... Hang it!" He looked up at her with a forlorn expression. _Where were his Watsons when he needed them?_

He felt his mobile buzz in his pocket, Molly's own screen lighting up in her sitting room.

**Come on, now. Focus. God knows I did it, and we all know how that turned out. And if an ordinary, washed-up ex-army doctor can do it, then so can a brilliant consulting genius. JW**

**Sorry, Molls, we didn't practice this bit with him - probably should have, in hindsight. MW**

Molly crossed back to the window, smiling as Sherlock pocketed his mobile. "You were saying?" She asked gently.

The detective took a deep breath and slipped a hand into his other coat pocket, wrapping his fingers around the tiny box inside before continuing.

"I care very much for you, Molly, and I-" He stopped.

Here he was, in the rain, underneath her window. He had walked blocks to get here, and he had stood here for half an hour simply wondering if he should turn around and walk right back to Baker Street, but he did not. No, he had stayed, and he had stayed for her. If there was ever a time for him to tell her he loved her, it was now.

"I love you, Molly Hooper, and though you are deserving of a much greater man than I myself could ever hope to amount to-" Here, the detective lowered himself down onto one knee, effectively soaking an entire leg of his Italian custom-measured trousers. "Will you marry me?"

He pulled out the tiny black box, opening it to reveal a diamond engagement ring.

The pathologist opened her mouth to let out a gasp, but no sound came out. Instead, she covered her mouth with both hands, standing in silence as her eyes widened and seemed to fill, though it may have been the dim street lighting deceiving the detective.

Suddenly, after a painfully slow second or two, Molly disappeared from view. Sherlock frowned, standing up with the ring still lying exposed on its velvet cushion. _Did I do it wrong?_

He watched the window for any sign that she might be returning to give him an answer, but the sitting room remained empty, to his great disappointment. Defeated and slightly... _Heartbroken? Yes, this must be what it feels like _- the detective had just turned around to walk back to his flat when a small scuffling noise from inside of the pathologist's flat made him look up.

All at once, her front door burst open and Molly came tearing across the pavement, sprinting right at him and paying no mind to the rain or her bare feet.

As she closed the gap between them, he beamed, holding out his arms and catching her, lifting her up and swinging her around. When he set her down again, she placed a hand on either side of his face and gently brought him down to her level. "Yes," she said breathlessly, kissing him, and as Sherlock wrapped her up in the folds of that truly _ridiculous_ coat, the consulting detective swore that he would never, ever let his pathologist go again.

**ooooo**

_Thank you all for being so very and truly patient, as I know it has been a bit of a wait for this chapter (though a worthwhile one, I hope!). _

_It is unbelievable to me how many kind reviews I have received - thank you for taking the time to share your lovely opinions with me!_

_[And finally, yes, yes, an epilogue is coming, dear readers - surely you didn't think I'd end without telling you what was in Molly's box?]_

_~London Belle_

_P.S. - if you'd like to see a picture of Molly's ivory dress, here is the link (It's the dress on the far left.):_

_ . _


	9. Epilogue

John sat at one of the slabs in the morgue, watching as Sherlock patiently sliced up a heart for his next experiment. As his attention began to slip, he focused on another item instead, one that had puzzled him for weeks - _The Case of the Curious Test Tube,_ he thought to himself.

The clues went like this: Sherlock had begun to wake up every day at 5:30. (John noticed the alarm set on his phone.) He would then go directly to St. Bart's, arriving at the hospital by 6:00. (In conjunction with the next few clues, John had observed Sherlock's new lock-picking hobby. The hospital opens at 7:00, so he figured the detective was brushing up on his skills.) John didn't know what he did at the hospital, but he was always back at Baker Street by 6:45. (John had beaten him to Baker Street one morning after receiving a text about a new case and would he please come immediately, whether it was convenient or not.) The final clue was that damn test tube: Each day they visited the morgue (they went almost every day now, usually to work on a case or the detective's boredom but sometimes just to have lunch with Molly and Mary), there would be one strange little test tube sitting in its strange little rack by the sink in the morgue. Under any other circumstances, the doctor would assume it contained some species or another of slow-growing bacteria, but no - inside the tiny glass cylinder rested a flower, a different one each day.

It had puzzled, perplexed, and even aggravated John that he simply could not figure out the meaning behind the plants. Were they part of an ongoing experiment? Were they simply decor? Had he been wrong in one of his observations?

He had decided that today was the day to find out.

"John!" As the doctor snapped himself back to reality, he saw Sherlock studying him with a raised eyebrow. "I asked you if you could please tell me which chamber of this man's heart suffered the most damage from the bullet?"

Sometimes, John felt that he did not give Molly all the credit she deserved. She had, after all, taught her normally incorrigible husband how to be _pleasant_ and even - dare he say it? - _polite_.

"Oh, sure, Sherlock, sorry," John said, standing to take a closer look at the organ. He pulled on a pair of gloves, gently slipping the heart into his own hands as he examined the damage. "I'd say the right atrium," he muttered to himself. "Though the left atrium is pretty torn up, too."

The detective beamed, taking the heart back and sliding it into its proper container. "Thank you, Doctor," he said as he placed the organ in the freezer. "I'll call Gregory immediately and-"

"Sherlock?" John interrupted. First of all, that peony was mocking him, he could tell, and he would not stand for it any longer. Second, now his friend was actually remembering the DI's name? Jesus, that woman was a proper _saint_!

He was met with a raised eyebrow in response.

"Why does that test tube always have a flower in it?" He felt stupid for asking, but he wanted to know.

Sherlock smiled softly, gazing at the tiny bloom with some sort of - no. It couldn't be. Could marriage have changed his friend _that_ much? John refused to jump to conclusions until he had more information.

"For Molly," he explained. "It's especially helpful to her on mornings after I've been away all night on a case."

"That's all?" John was shocked. He was stunned. He knew it took some to up and marry somebody, but he never expected it to go this far. "It isn't an experiment? Or a test? Or even part of some case I don't know about?"

"No, it's just for her, and I suppose I rather like surprising her every day," replied the detective, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"It can't be - you told me yourself, hell, you told _everyone_ yourself -"

Sherlock sighed. "John, please refrain from prattling. What more do I need to explain for you to understand?"

"Marriage changed you, Sherlock Holmes. Now you're getting _sentimental_ on me!"

Sherlock stiffened at the use of the word, but thought about it for a minute and eventually relaxed again. He strode over to the sink and plucked the glass from its rack, carrying it gingerly over to the doctor. He held it up, revealing an engraving that John hadn't noticed before. **SH**, it read, in script.

"She had bought me an entire set of them the night I proposed," he said. "I put them all to use constantly except this one, lest I disintegrate or drop the others out of clumsiness. I always wanted to have one, to keep one safe." He slipped the test tube back into the rack.

"Oh," was all a dumbfounded (and slightly embarrassed) John could say.

As the pair left the morgue for New Scotland Yard, the doctor pondered what his friend had told him. By the time the cab slowed to a stop in front of the formidable building, John Watson had made up his mind.

ooooo

The doorbell rang late that night, after Molly had gone to bed. Lying on the couch, Sherlock opened one eye lazily and plodded to the door, opening it to find a delivery man awkwardly holding a sizable bouquet of all kinds of flowers.

"Delivery for-" the man began.

"I didn't order any flowers," came the puzzled drawl.

"Well, if you live in... 221B Baker Street," said the man, reading the address off of a little white card. "You did. So please, sir, if you would, sign here."

The detective sighed, scribbling a signature down and taking the flowers from the man before closing the door to the flat. As he moved to set the bouquet down on the kitchen table, a small card fell onto the carpet at his feet. He picked it up, flipping it over to reveal a short message.

_For your test tube, so you won't have to get up so early every day. Hide them well. JW_

Sherlock grinned. He'd be truly lost without his blogger.

**ooooo**

_Thank you so much, dear readers, for your kind feedback and support!_

_Next story is scheduled to come out very soon (no, not a third book to add to the series, I'm afraid), and I'm terribly excited about it!_

_Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you again to you all - it's been an amazing experience having so much publicity over two tiny little stories, I can hardly believe it!_

_After all, I'd be positively lost without my readers._

_~London Belle_


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